


World that Is, World to Come

by Lasgalendil



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Awesome Claire Temple, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Depression, Drug Addiction, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex Work, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drug Use, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:45:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: He hadn’t died in the Chitauri Invasion. Not even when he’d wanted to.  He’d been scared of the pain but not the dying. He’d be pissed at his concept of G-d but the universe wasn’t unfair or ironic it was simply indifferent. A single human named Bucky Barnes among the billions to have existed and will have ever existed was as inconsequential as an atom. He didn’t ask to be born, didn’t ask for this body and had no hope of a world to come. So he shot up with dirty needles and let older guys fuck him and stood close to the edge of the subway platform and wondered what it’d feel like to fall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [erupted with rubies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067419) by [yasgorl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasgorl/pseuds/yasgorl). 



> Trigger warning: contains memories of 9/11, graphic depictions of disaster, depression, PTSD, and dissociation.

Shit.  
  
Bad enough Becca caught him and some guy with their pants down behind the bathrooms. Worse, she’d let out a squeal and ran, the stupid little fucker. By the time he’d fumbled an apology, tripped over his pants and got them up and buckled she was nowhere in sight.

"Becks!"  
  
Yeah. Running through Riverside Park with a still half-hard boner. That was fun. Not to mention the sex hair and a stranger’s cum all down his face. The looks he was getting…  
  
It wasn’t his fault, damnit. Becca’d been hitting it off with some rich kids and their nanny, and he’d snuck away to smoke. So he wasn’t big brother of the year, sue him. He was seventeen and selfish, mulling over getting a soda when some guy in a Armani tracksuit and three hundred dollar shoes gave him a Look, and what the hell. He’d make a few bucks, get some oxy and maybe fucking feel something for once.  
  
But she’d been _right there_. And she’d been _safe._  
  
Now he’d lost his little sister in goddamn Manhattan.  
  
Bucky sent a frantic glance towards the playground. Debbie and Hattie were still on the swings, chattering away with the Banana Republic twins and their nanny. He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Shit. Hattie wasn’t even in preschool yet. He couldn’t just run after Becca and leave them there.  
  
But Becca’d gone off on her own to fuck knows where and the world was a shit place for anyone let alone little girls, and damnit there were at least a dozen grown ups here. Shit day. Shit choices. Fuck. Mom was going to kill him.

  
  
...

  
He’d been Debbie’s age when 9/11 happened. And if he’d known today was the day goddamn aliens were going to come out of the sky and the US government tried to nuke NYC he wouldn’t’ve been out in the park turning tricks let alone taking his kid sisters there in the first place.

  
…

The only consolation (if there was a consolation) were cell phones. Thank G-d for fucking cell phones. Everyone had one these days. It wasn’t like before. Not when Dad’d been late getting him to school that morning because Bucky was being a brat and wouldn’t even hug him goodbye. Then the teachers started crying, one after another, and kids were getting pulled out of class and no one would tell him what the fuck was going on and he’d never seen an adult so terrified, never been so fucking scared in his life. Then mom came and she was crying, and there were planes falling out of the sky all over America and the Towers were gone and his Dad worked down there and no one knew what was happening and no one could tell him his Dad was okay. His mom spent the whole day screaming and shaking and Bucky watched the smoke rising from Midtown and thought it was the end of the world.  
  
But when the skies were full of strange ships and aliens and the buildings were falling and he ducked behind a dumpster for shelter he didn’t think to call. Didn’t think to text. Didn’t think about Mom, didn’t think of Debbie or Hattie or even Becca out there all on her own. He curled up in a ball and watched himself from far, far away as his mind went blank. No fear. No pain.  Acceptance bordering on relief: He was going to die here. It would be okay. He had his phone on him. They’d find him.  
  
There'd be a body to bury. It wouldn’t be like before.

  
  
…

  
But as the dust settled and sirens screamed he came back to himself. The phone was all cracked to hell but it had battery and signal and he couldn’t even text his hands were shaking so bad but he could call so he did. Called the one person who could possibly give a shit about some fucked up teen like him, the one person in the world who’d worry herself sick over him like she’d done for George Barnes so long ago.  
  
“James!”

“Ma.”

“I was so worried! Are you alright? Are you safe? And the girls? Where are you, sweetie, I’ll come and get you—James? James! Sweetheart answer me. James! Where are you? What’s happened? Where are the girls!”

  
Bucky felt a lump grow in his throat. It tasted like dust and cum and choked back shame. “I don’t have ‘em, ma.”

  
...

  
It all worked out in the end, though. Debbie remembered mom’s cell through the panic so some woman named Katrya called, said they were alive at least, though it’d be hours before they could reach them. Then Becca’d got her picture plastered all over the news getting carried to an ambulance by Captain fucking America and the girls were crying all the way to the hospital and Becca wouldn’t talk she was still so shaken and Mom couldn’t even look at him he was such a colossal shitty fuck up of a son. So Bucky went home, climbed out on the fire escape and lit up a cigarette to watch the smoke rising over Midtown and knew it was the end of the fucking world.  
  
But the next day the sun came up like nothing happened, and Bucky blew some businessman behind the bodega and tried heroin for the first time. Saturday Mom dragged them all to Temple, like G-d (or the concept of G-d, however you relate to it when fucking Thor was battling aliens and your government tried to turn Midtown into a re-enactment of Sodom and Gomorrah) ever gave a shit about them. Call him Ishmael because Bucky’d gave up fighting any idea of G-d a long time ago.  
  
He’d grown up Reformed if anything, so it wasn’t like they’d ever kept Kosher or even Shabbat. He hadn’t really been to temple much except Yom Kippur or someone’s Bar Mitzvah.  But the world was in crisis, so Mom did that thing that grown ups do where they pretend everything’s going to be okay but you know it isn’t and suddenly became super Jewish again. And people prayed and they sang and the crotchety old survivors laughed and said they’d lived through Hitler and everybody said shit like ‘solidarity’ and ‘community’ as if humanity’s understanding of the universe hadn’t changed and a bunch of kids hadn’t got crushed, his little sisters almost among them. Then because he was the poor screw-up of a kid who lost his dad on 9/11 and everyone knew it Rabbi Arenson had arranged for him to help open the Ark and Bucky lost his shit. Lost it right there in temple laughing so hard he was crying and Becca was scared of him again.

...

  
They sat him down with Dr. Zacharias and he lied his way through. He’d tried some drugs who hadn’t. Sure he’d been sexually active once but he used a condom, so it was okay? This was all confidential, right? Don’t tell his mom? Of course wasn’t going to hurt himself again. She told him to take some new meds and do these breathing exercises and what did he think about yoga or these group sessions for youth affected by the Chitauri invasion and to talk to his mom or his step-dad or a Rabbi or the counselor at school and she was here for him, her door was always open, he could always call. It hadn’t helped before, it wouldn’t help now, but he said thank you, ma’am like a good little boy because he’d known her before the world had gone to shit and she'd been kind.

 

...

 

He didn’t bother to cheek the pills anymore. It didn't help. He hadn't thought it would.  
  
He slept. He ate. August came and he even went to school at least half the days, and sometimes stayed through lunch. He avoided his siblings and if Mom left the house she took the girls with her. He hadn’t died in the Chitauri Invasion. Not even when he’d wanted to.  He’d been scared of the pain but not the dying. He’d be pissed at his concept of G-d but the universe wasn’t unfair or ironic it was simply indifferent. A single human named Bucky Barnes among the billions to have existed and will have ever existed was as inconsequential as an atom. He didn’t ask to be born, didn’t ask for this body and had no hope of a world to come. So he shot up with dirty needles and let older guys fuck him and stood close to the edge of the subway platform and wondered what it’d feel like to fall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault. Except it was, and Captain America could see it. He was a lying, shit-faced druggie who’d just been face-fucked in the toilet and his sick little sister was G-d knows where right now. He fiddled with the frayed hem of his ruined T-shirt. He couldn’t look Rogers in the eye. “Do you hate me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for sexual assault.

New York recovered slowly. Becca’s arm didn’t.  
  
He’d broken his arm once as a kid, wore a cast for half an itchy, miserable summer but it hadn’t been like this. Becca’s arm had been bloodied and awful and that pic of her clutching Cap had gone viral. They’d called it “external fixation”, pinned her arm together with metal rods, tried to smile and say she was just like Iron Man. Had to shave a chuck of skin out of her thigh to cover the damn wound it’d left.  
  
But even weeks later it wasn’t healing right, the graft had turned grey and today the MRI showed osteomyelitis or some shit which was fancy doctor-speak for fucking eating itself. The break hadn’t healed, the bone was infected, and the skin graft was dying so they’d had to remove it. And now her left arm was mangled and pinned and rotting and she’d have big ugly scars on her arm and thigh for life all for a transplant that didn’t work.  
  
And he’d done that. He’d left her and he’d scared her and it was all his fault.  
  
“Is she gonna lose the arm?” Bucky asked. It might’ve been the first thing he’d said all day. All week, even.  
  
All they did was smile and bullshit. “It’s too soon to tell.” “We’re hopeful she’ll make a full recovery.” and “-one of the best pediatric orthopedic surgeons in the country.”

...  
  
He wasn’t a good person, he was shit sibling but he loved her in whatever small, selfish way someone like him could love. He’d asked to stay with her, he couldn’t just leave her, not again, but the surgeons said she’d be asleep, she’d never know. Wouldn’t miss him.  
  
Yeah. Bucky couldn’t blame her. He was a goddamn mess. Couldn’t even go six hours in a waiting room without stumbling to the restroom for a hit, sweaty and nauseous and cramping and his whole fucking body hurt. His hands were shaking so bad he couldn’t even shoot up without dropping his rig. And of course the guy at the urinals would come investigate. And of course he’d be wearing scrubs.  
  
Bucky was so fucked.  
  
…  
Correction: So, _so_ fucked.  
  
Because Bucky knew that look when he saw it. He was experienced enough now to know when a man wanted him. The guy talked him up all smooth, said he was gorgeous and it’d be a shame to send those lips to prison but hey whaddya know it was his lucky day because this guy had a long, hard dick and a heart of gold and so for the right price he’d be willing to look the other way, wouldn’t rat Bucky out to security, call the cops, tell his Mom…and that’s how Bucky ended up on his knees choking on yet another stranger’s dick as he abused his throat, then hacking cum and bile into the toilet once he’d left.

  
It was also how he'd meet Steve Rogers.  
…  
Bucky heard the bathroom door swing open again as he tied his arm off. The guy was bound to notice him on the stall floor, but if he kept quiet he might just decide to leave Bucky alone—

There was a polite knock and rattling. “Hey, pal. You okay in there?” No such luck. He was two for two, here. But finally he’d struck a vein and suddenly everything was wonderful and he didn’t give a flying shit. A shitting Fuck. A fucking shitfly.

“‘M fine,” Bucky slurred.

The door jostled roughly then swung open. And there stood Captain fucking America and his mighty shield in all their star-spangled glory.

They stared at each other. Bucky lost his shit again.

Of course it’d be Captain America. Of fucking course. He’d been dumb enough to shoot up in public and the fucking _Avengers_ had caught him. It was terrifyingly hysterical and laughing felt good, laughing felt fucking amazing so he laughed some more.  
 

“Jesus.” Rogers said.

“Nope!” Bucky hiccoughed, wiping tears messily and nestling his head down against the toilet. “‘M Jewish.”

Captain fucking America frowned. “How high are you right now?”

He was fucked. He was so fucked right now. But that was future Bucky’s problem. Blissed out Bucky couldn’t give two shits about that guy. Future Bucky was in for a G-ddamn shitshow.  “Go away.”

Rogers knelt and reached for him.

“No,” Bucky said sadly. He didn’t want to have sex right now. Not with Captain America. He closed his eyes and curled away.

There was a hand under his chin. “Can you look at me?”

Rogers looked at him, really looked at him and put it together from the scuffed knees of his pants, pinprick pupils and disheveled hair, the stains on his shirt and the smell of sex.Something in his face gentled. “Did someone hurt you?”

"No," Bucky grimaced. He swiped at Rogers' grip. “Lemme go.”

Rogers dropped his hand. “Can I get you anything,” he asked. “Water. Tooth brush. Ride to the shelter.”

  
What an asshole. Bad enough Captain America caught him shooting up and turning tricks and sniffling like a baby. Now the guy was making fun of him. What a dick. “Can I go, now, Captain Asshole? Or am I under arrest?”

Rogers sighed, and stepped outside.

Bucky didn’t understand. “You’re gonna let me go?”

“It’s none of my business if you’re using, son. You’re telling me you were conscious and sober and fully consenting but I think we both know you’re lying. I don’t have anything else to go on, so your word it is.”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _his fault_. Except it was, and Captain America could see it. He was a lying, shit-faced druggie who’d just been face-fucked in the toilet and his sick little sister was G-d knows where right now. He fiddled with the frayed hem of his ruined T-shirt. He couldn’t look Rogers in the eye. “Do you hate me?”

“I lived through the Depression, son. Did some pretty desperate things to get by.”

Bucky blinked and looked up. Rogers felt far, far away. “Why’d you tell me that?”

“Because it’s true,” he said. His gaze saddened. “And because no one will believe you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky swallowed. His mouth was dry. “‘M just lost, I swear.” Then, because she must think he was really, really, shitacularly stupid, “‘m really not dumb enough to steal from a hospital, promise.”

Bucky had sprawled, cuddled up beside the toilet where Rogers found him. Ugh. The floor smelt a bit like taint and shit and urinal cakes, 0/10 would not recommend. The man himself had long since disappeared from the line of urinals, washed his hands and left. But the sink and counter were both dry when Bucky staggered out to them. So. Right. Captain America. Resurrected World War II costumed hero and Avenger. Sure, Bucky. Sure your childhood hero and first masturbatory fantasy was here with his big blue eyes and disappointed dad face and surprisingly gentle hands telling you he too had been a queer druggie whore as a teen. Shit, he was high.

He splashed water on his face. Dabbed at his shirt. Yeah, no. He still looked terrible.

…also his subconscious needed to seriously fucking chill.

...

There was a hand-written sign on the door. Sharpie letters on crisp, white paper in a loopy, even cursive: CLOSED.

...

  
Shit.

He’d missed Becca waking up. Missed the recovery room, too. By the time he’d put his shit self together enough to ask the charge nurse where she went she’d been transferred back to the Peds floor. Fuck all if he could find it. He couldn’t find his own _dick_ right now let alone the stupid elevators in this stupid building. He wandered and sort of lost track of time. The wards were dark and silent, only the occasional buzzing of an dim overhead fluorescent bulb, and probably not good for a guy with a tentative grip on reality at the moment but it sort of reminded him of _Batman: Arkham Asylum_. He was looking for something. Someone? Was he hallucinating? Playing a video game? Where was he going? He pinched himself and shivered. It was creepy as fuck.

Finally he caught the dull blue of nurse’s scrubs. Oh thank G-d, a person. She turned a corner quickly and keyed open a door. Bucky followed her.

“Can I help you?” She asked sharply.

“‘M looking for Peds,” he mumbled.

“You sure?”

Bucky blinked. She was small with smooth brown skin. Her straightened hair had just enough crimp at the roots to be ethnically ambiguous. But Black or Brown or Latina or whatever, he’d followed her right into the Pyxis, and now he was face to face with a woman who was staring him down like she could kick Hulk’s ass then eat Iron Man for breakfast. Shit.

He took a shaky step back. She pursued him. “Hey, sorry. My bad.” Her eyebrows said it all. Fuck. He was a mess.

Bucky swallowed. His mouth was dry. “‘M just lost, I swear.” Then, because she must think he was really, really, shitacularly stupid, “‘m really not dumb enough to steal from a hospital, promise.”

“I hear that a lot. Usually from my co-workers.”

Bucky looked at his shoes. Scuffed the floor. “My sister had surgery. ‘M just trying to find her. ‘M sorry.”

Her expression changed. Not exactly softened, but understanding. “You’re high right now.”

Bucky snorted. “Yep.” He popped the p. He didn’t know why. It just seemed the thing to do.

She sighed. “C’mon, let’s go. You can wait it out in the ER. The cops don’t care, and I’d rather you passed out where someone can keep an eye on you than find you dead tomorrow at the bottom of a stairwell.”

“Yeah no Becca’s already used all the health insurance for her arm and they said she might lose it and maybe they took it off already I don’t know but my Mom can’t know and I just need to find Becca. I need to find her. That’s all,” he sort of word vomited at her.

“I’m going to check your vitals, okay?” She reached for his wrist, counting his pulse and breathing on her watch with a frown. Then she put two fingers against his neck. Shone a light in his eyes.

Bucky blinked. Swallowed. His mouth was really, really dry. His eyes were dry, too.

“Are you feeling dizzy?”

Bucky nodded. “’N sleepy.”

“I’ll bet. You barely have peripheral pulses so your bp’s in the shitter. You’re bradycardic and your pupils are pinprick. I see this all the time, and I’m telling you you should wait it out in the ER. I can take you down now, no questions asked. They don’t even need a name.”

He wiped his nose. Shook his head. “I just wanna find Becca.”

“Alright,” she said. “Alright. But you code on me, kid, I'm breaking your xiphoid process.”

…

  
Fuck life. Fuck everything. Fuck elevators in particular. There was this little jolt as the cables started up and Bucky clung to the side paneling for dear life because he was _definitely fucking falling._

The nurse hummed. “You holding up?”

Bucky blinked. Of course he wasn’t falling. It was an elevator. That’s what elevators _do_. He flushed and pushed himself back upright. “‘M fine.”

“People who are ‘fine’ get shitfaced a party,” she said calmly, like getting shitfaced was the weather forecast or something. “Not hospital toilets when their kid sister’s in surgery.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. He was a liar, and he wasn’t even good at it. Captain America knew. Now this nurse did, too.

“What are you on?”

“Heroin.”

She nodded appreciatively. “Right to the big guns, huh. How you paying for it?"

Bucky worked his jaw. “I work part time.”

She knew what that meant. Her voice softened. “You stay safe?”

“Sometimes.” It wasn't a total lie.

“You snort? Smoke?”

Bucky bit his lip. Shook his head. “’S cheaper to inject.”

“You got clean needles on you?”

Bucky shrugged his face. Fuck all if he knew or cared.

She tsked. Angled her body between him and the security camera, fishing in her pocket all the while. “Here.” She palmed him a roll of 28G needles and a long strip of alcohol wipes.

Bucky stared. “Um, shouldn’t you be…you know, yelling at me?”

She looked at him like he was an idiot. But he was high. In the hospital. Straight up telling a nurse he was shooting up. He probably was. “Would that make you quit?”

“...No?”

“Then I’ll save my breath. I can’t make you stop using, but any harm reduction is a win in my book.” It was quiet for a moment. “You live around here? There’s a needle exchange down at the community center. Three blocks away. Unlimited quantities. They do testing, give out free condoms, too.”

Bucky shook his head. “We’ve got something like that at my Temple. Community center. Thing. Tikkun fucking olam, you know?”

That seemed to amuse her. Just a bit. “Do me a favor? Think about using it.”

Bucky stared at his feet again. The rubber on his Converse was peeling way from the canvas. He frowned. These were his favorite shoes.

“You got a name, kid?”

“Bucky.”

"Claire." She clacked her teeth, gesturing to her name tag. "And you probably already read that, then again maybe you didn’t,” and she fixed him with sad, sad stare. It wasn’t pitying, just pointed and knowing as fuck. “I work down in the ER. Been there for eight years. I lose someone almost every week whether its an OD, sepsis, heart attack from infected valves…it’s like the AIDS crisis, in the end it’ll get you one way or another. My patients come back again and again until the last time, then they’re dead before the hit the door. I get a lot of DOAs. Send a lot of young people to the morgue. It’s not a good road,” she paused. Took a deep breath. “You and I both know how this could end for you.”

“Yeah.” OD, HIV. Killed by a shitty hook-up. Bucky laughed. His life was a terrible Hollywood queer cliche, and he knew it. But he was high, and life didn’t _hurt_ right now, and he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Here’s your stop. Nice meeting you—but like I tell all my patients I’d really prefer not to see you again. ”

Bucky stumbled out of the car groggily. “”m not a patient.”

“Sure,” Claire said as the car began to close. “And Bucky?” Her arm snuck back through the closing doors and she glowered at him. His balls sort of shriveled. “You tamper with that little girl’s PCA, I’ll kick your ass.”

  
…

She shouldn’t have bothered. He never even made it to Becca's room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blissed out Bucky was such a fucking fuck-up. He should’ve stayed in the bathroom and slept off the high. Followed Claire to the ER. Gone anywhere in the whole fucking world but the floor where his parents were. What a colossal, useless cumstain.

Bucky fucked up. He'd fucked up so fucking bad.

…

Proctor was pissed. It was the usual “dependability, bad role model, irresponsible” spiel. Mom was upset, where have you been, why didn’t you answer your phone, we were so worried, you can’t do that to the girls, not again. Proctor said he looked like half-baked shit. Mom said she loved him, she was worried, she didn’t understand. Proctor wanted him to take a drug test. Then they both held hands and looked at each other and nodded and said stuff like “tough love” and “choices” and that he couldn’t see his baby sister.

  
...

“What?” Bucky cried in outrage. “You can’t do that!”

“We’re her guardians,” Proctor said as Mom nodded tearfully. “We can and we have.”

“You can’t tell me I can’t see my own baby sister! She’s in the hospital for fuck’s sake—“

“James, please,” Mom pleaded. “Keep your voice down.”

“Don’t talk to your mother like that.”

Bucky scowled. “No, no fuck you. Both of you! You don’t get to do this.”

“James, sweetie please, you’re making a scene—“

“Oh, I’m making a scene?” Bucky put his hands in his hair and laughed. “ _I’m making a scene?_ I’m not the one who’s holding my baby sister hostage!”

Mom looked scared. “James…”

“If you don’t calm now, we'll call security,” Proctor said. “If I have to, we’ll call the police.”

“Fuck you, Proctor,” Bucky leveled. “You’re not even my dad.”

The dick had the balls to look affronted. “I’ve never once tried to be.”

“Yeah. You’ve made that pretty obvious,” he sneered.

“James.” Mom’s voice was firm.

He wheeled on her. “He can’t do this, Mom. It’s not fair!”

Mom was crying. “He’s not doing this, sweetie. You are. You’re only making it harder on yourself.”

“You always do this,” Bucky accused her. “Always. Every time I ask you for help you always take his side!”

“Don’t make this about us,” Proctor butted in. “Don’t you dare try to make your behavior about us.”

“I’m so sorry, James. I’m so sorry,” Mom said. She was crying in earnest now. “But you’re missing school. Skipping meals. You sleep all the time. I thought I could give you time, that it was just the depression,  that Becca getting hurt and everything that’s happened…but you disappeared today. You wouldn’t even answer you phone. Not one text. Then you show up here hours late to see Becca when you’re clearly high. This can’t go on, sweetie. We won’t let it.”  
  
Bucky felt his jaw jumping, lips bitten. His chest ached and he shook, wiped furiously at hot, angry tears. Shit. Shit. Mom was crying. Mom was crying and he’d fucking done that.  
  
He went rigid as she hugged him. “It’s not your fault, sweetie. We’ve been so focused on Becca and Debbie and Hattie…we let you down. You’ve been hurting and I just let it happen. No more, sweetie. No more. I have to be here for you. Even if it means you hate me.”

Bucky wrenched back. Choked on his tears. “I can’t believe you’d do this to Becca.”

Proctor butted in. “If you really cared about Rebecca you’d take the test, go to rehab and get clean.”

“Mom…” Bucky let out a whine between short, shaky breaths. He was dizzy. The world gone too hot. “Mom.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No.”

“Mom, _please_.”

“I can’t. I can’t, Sweetie! I’m so sorry. It’s the only way I know how to reach you anymore.”

He balled his hands into fists. “Then fucking try harder!”

...

  
He was a shit person. A shittier son. The shittiest brother. They'd had the whole shitshow of an argument right there in the waiting room. Right in fucking front of Debbie and Hattie. The girls were white-faced and scared and it’d escalated into a shouting match and it was almost a relief when security finally rushed in and tackled him in a hold onto tile floor.  
  
“Calm down, kid.”  
  
“You’re hurting me!” Bucky cried, choking in the headlock. “You’re fucking hurting me!”  
  
Mom made a little groaning sound, but she didn’t stop it. Just stood there with her big dumb cow eyes and didn’t do a damn thing to help him.  
  
“James, please. Sweetie, we love you.”  
  
He wanted to hurt her. Hurt himself.  
  
“Did Cap put you up to this? Huh?” he asked hysterically. “Captain fucking America! Did he tell you what I am? That I was sucking dick in the toilets while Becca was getting cut open? Just so I could get high? Did he tell you I didn’t even fucking wash my face off before shooting up? That I was blowing some guy in Riverside Park when the Chitauri hit, I didn’t know where the girls where and I didn’t care?”  
  
Mom looked sick. “I don’t believe you.”  
  
“Ask Becca. It’s why she got her arm torn off. Because it’s true. It’s all true. That’s who I am.”  
  
“James, please. I—“  
  
He shivered in self-disgust. Looked away. “You don’t love me you don’t even fucking know me.”

  
…

  
Bucky was numb. After all the screaming and struggling and the adrenaline now he just felt empty and hollow.  
  
Shit. Blissed-out Bucky was such a fucking fuck-up. He should’ve stayed in the bathroom and slept off the high. Followed Claire to the ER. Gone anywhere in the whole fucking world but the floor where his parents were.  What a colossal, useless cumstain. “Are you taking me to jail?”  
  
The security guy shook his head. “Your parents or the hospital would have to press charges for that. Disorderly Conduct. I don’t think anyone wants to do that. Right now you’ve got two choices, kid. We can take you to the ER and see where it goes from there—”  
  
“Or?”  
  
“You’re a minor. It's a little different for you. Your parents can sign you right into psych.”  
  
Bucky scuffed his shoes together. “So what you’re saying is, either way I’m fucked.”  
  
“You’ve got a choice, son. You can make this easier on yourself or harder,” Officer McMallcop said. “Your choice. I know what I’d want if you were my kid. Let me take you downstairs and we’ll get you settled.”  
  
He should go to the ER. He should just apologize to Mom and go to the ER. He should’ve gone to the fucking ER in the first place. But he remembered Claire and how kind she’d been and something went sour at the thought of seeing her in the shitshow of a state he was in. If he hadn’t been so numb he might’ve called it shame.  
  
…And Mom wouldn’t let him see Becca. If he had to suffer then so should she.  
  
“No.” Bucky mumbled. “If she wants to lock me up she can sign the damn paperwork.”  
  
“Have it your way, kid.” The guy sighed, and said something into his mic. “Alright, kid. They’ll get you blue papered. Now come on. It’s come quietly or I drag you down the hall in zip ties.”  
  
“Is my Mom out there?” Bucky asked.  
  
The guy spoke into his mic again. “Copy. Yeah, kid. She’s here. You wanna talk to her?”  
  
“Nope,” he popped the p and held out his wrists. “I want her to watch.”

...

His shoulders ached and he got friction burns on his knees like he’d blown a whole frat house, sure. But the stupid, shocked look on her face was worth it.


End file.
